the fourth morning walked jauntily past the Cottage and ventured a quiet good-morning—a simple enough little incident in itself; but it proved Tam’s kinship with his fellowmen. For is it not the knowledge that some one thinks well of us that makes us feel at ease in that person’s company?
Later in the same day, the flood having fallen, it was decided that it would be well to cross the horses in the rear of a boat, and we were all at the river discussing preparations, when Tam electrified the community by joining the group.
In the awkward pause that followed his arrival he passed a general remark about dogs—there were several with us—and every one plunged into dog yarns, until Tam, losing his head over the success of his maiden speech, became so communicative on the subject of a dog-fight that he had to be surreptitiously kicked into silence.
“Looks like more rain,” Mac said abruptly, hoping to draw public attention from the pantomime. “Ought to get off as soon as possible, or we’ll be blocked at the King.”
The Katherine seized on the new topic of conversation, and advised “getting out to the five-mile overnight,” declaring it would “take all day to get away from the Settlement in the morning.” Then came another awkward pause, while every one kept one eye on Tam, until the Măluka saved the situation by calling for volunteers to help with the horses, and, Tam being pressed into the service, the boat was launched, and he was soon safe over the far side of the river.
Once among the horses, the little man was transformed. In the quiet, confident horseman that rode down the gorge a few minutes later it would have been difficult to recognise the shy, timid bushman. The saddle had given him backbone, and it soon appeared he was right-hand man, and, at times, even organiser in the difficult task of crossing horses through a deep, swift-running current.
As the flood was three or four hundred yards wide and many feet deep, a swim was impossible without help, and every horse was to be supported or guided, or dragged over in the rear of the boat, with a halter held by a man in the stern.
It was no child’s play. Every inch of the way had its difficulties. The poor brutes knew the swim was beyond them; and as the boat, pulling steadily on, dragged them from the shallows into the deeper water, they plunged and snorted in fear, until they found themselves swimming, and were obliged to give all their attention to keeping themselves afloat.
Some required little assistance when once off their feet; just a slow, steady pull from the oars, and a taut enough halter to lean on in the tight places. But others rolled over like logs when the full force of the current struck them, threatening to drag the boat under, as it and the horse raced away down stream with the oarsmen straining their utmost.
It was hard enough work for the oarsmen; but the seat of honour was in the stern of the boat, and no man filled it better than the transformed Tam. Alert and full of resource, with one hand on the tiller, he leaned over the boat, lengthening or shortening rope for the halter, and regulating the speed of the oarsmen with unerring judgment; giving a staunch swimmer time and a short rope to lean on, or literally dragging the faint-hearted across at full speed; careful then only of one thing: to keep the head above water. Never again would I judge a man by one of his failings.
There were ten horses in all to cross, and at the end of two hours’ hard pulling there was only one left to come—old Roper.
Mac took the halter into his own hands—there was no one else worthy—and, slipping into the stern of the boat, spoke first to the horse and then to the oarsmen; and as the boat glided forward, the noble, trusting old horse—confident that his long-tried human friend would set him no impossible task—came quietly through the shallows, sniffing questions at the half-submerged bushes.
“Give him time!” Mac called. “Let him think it out,” as step by step Roper followed, the halter running slack on the water. When almost out of his depth, he paused just a moment, then, obeying the tightening rope, lifted himself to the flood and struck firmly and bravely out.
Staunchly he and Mac dealt with the current: taking time and approaching it quietly, meeting it with taut rope and unflinching nerve, drifting for a few breaths to judge its force; then, nothing daunted, they battled forward, stroke after stroke, and won across without once pulling the boat out of its course.
Only Roper could have done it; and when the splendid neck and shoulders appeared above water as he touched bottom, on the submerged track, he was greeted with a cheer and a hearty, unanimous “Bravo! old chap!” Then Mac returned thanks with a grateful look, and, leaping ashore, looked over the beautiful, wet, shining limbs, declaring he could have “done it on his own,” if required.
Once assured that we were anxious for a start, the Katherine set about speeding the parting guests with gifts of farewell. The Wag brought fresh tomatoes and a cucumber; the Telegraph sent eggs; the Police a freshly baked cake; the Chinese cook baked bread, and Mine Host came with a few potatoes and a flat-iron. To the surprise of the Katherine, I received the potatoes without enthusiasm, not having been long enough in the Territory to know their rare value, and, besides, I was puzzling over the flat iron.
“What’s it for?” I asked, and the Wag shouted in mock amazement: “For! To iron duds with, of course,” as Mine Host assured us it was of no use to him beyond keeping a door open.
Still puzzled, I said I thought there would not be any need to iron duds until we reached the homestead, and the Măluka said quietly: “It’s for the homestead. There will be nothing like that there.”
Mac exploded with an impetuous “Good Heavens! What does she expect? First pillows and now irons!”
Gradually realising that down South we have little idea of what “rough” means to a bushman, I had from day to day been modifying my ideas of a station home from a mansion to a commodious wooden cottage, plainly but comfortably furnished. The Cottage had confirmed this idea, but Mac soon settled the question beyond all doubt.
“Look here!” he said emphatically. “Before she leaves this place she’ll just have to grasp things a bit better,” and sitting down on a swag he talked rapidly for ten minutes, taking a queer delight in making everything sound as bad as possible, “knocking the stiffening out of the missus,” as he phrased it, and certainly bringing the “commodious station home” about her ears, which was just as well, perhaps.
After a few scathing remarks on the homestead in general, which he called “One of those down-at-the-heels, anything-’ll-do sort of places,” he described The House. “It’s mostly verandahs and promises,” he said; “but one room is finished. We call it The House, but you’ll probably call it a Hut, even though it has got doors and calico windows framed and on hinges.”
Then followed an inventory of the furniture. “There’s one fairly steady, good-sized table at least it doesn’t fall over, unless some one leans on it; then there’s a bed with a wire mattress, but nothing else on it; and there’s a chair or two up to your weight (the boss’ll either have to stand up or lie down), and I don’t know that there’s much else excepting plenty of cups and plates—they’re enamel, fortunately, so you won’t have much trouble with the servants breaking things. Of course there’s a Christmas card and a few works of art on the walls for you to look at when you’re tired of looking at yourself in the glass. Yes! There’s a looking-glass—goodness knows how it got there! You ought to be thankful for that and the wire-mattress. You won’t find many of them out bush.”
I humbly acknowledged thankfulness, and felt deeply grateful to Mine Host, when, with ready thoughtfulness he brought a couple of china cups and stood them among the baggage—the heart of Mine Host was as warm and sincere as his flashing smiles. I learned, in time, to be indifferent to china cups, but that flat-iron became one of my most cherished possessions—how it got to the Katherine is a long, long story, touching on three continents, a man, a woman, and a baby.
The commodious station home destroyed, the Katherine bestirred itself further in the speeding of its guests. The Telegraph came with the offer of their buggy, and then the Police offered theirs; but Mine Host, harnessing two nuggety little horses